


Ice Queen

by Uniasus



Series: An Icy Royal Family [1]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Gang Rape, Gen, Pre-Series, Public Relations, Women in the Military, Women's Rights, high society - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-24
Updated: 2014-07-24
Packaged: 2018-02-10 05:05:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2011983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Uniasus/pseuds/Uniasus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Armstrong daughters were meant to be dainty ladies who had perfected the art of conversations and dance, whose ultimate destiny would be to find herself married in a political move between two families.</p><p>Olivia didn't want that life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ice Queen

**Author's Note:**

> Towards the end, this fic gets pretty serious. Forging a path for other women is never going to be easy.

Despite Alex’s declarations of otherwise, there really weren’t any long standing traditions passed down through the generations. Just money and reputation. The Armstrongs had been wealthy since the founding of Amestris. And while members had been a part of the military- it was impossible for that not to happen with a military run country and being of such a high status family- it was not common for the Armstrong ladies. 

The adult women were supposed to add to a room with their grace and looks. They hosted wonderful parties and supported their husbands in whatever path they chose to follow. They also bossed around the staff. 

Armstrong daughters were meant to be dainty ladies who had perfected the art of conversations and dance, whose ultimate destiny would be to find herself married in a political move between two families.

Olivia had seen it happen numerous times. Her cousins and friends older than her would suddenly no longer be around to play, and when she called at their homes to ask about married life they would smile and hide behind a fan saying it was wonderful, they couldn’t have asked for a better husband, they were hoping for a child soon, and eventually she would understand their joy too.

She used to believe them, until Julie.

Julie had been the closest friend Olivia had ever had. They shared everything; every secret, every fear, and even their first dance (which is how they had met). So when Julie got married and Olivia went to visit, she could see the signs. Julie was saying the same things everyone else had, but they were lies she was telling herself and her friend. 

“Why are you doing this?” Olivia had asked, forcing Julie’s fan down and looking her in the eyes. “Why are you lying?”

And being so close, Julie couldn’t help but answer truthfully. “Because I don’t want you to dread being in my position from now till you are. I wanted you to live a happy life without worry for women’s trappings, but it seems I have failed.”

“Is it really that terrible?”

“His hands are cold, and not gentle at all. And he no longer looks at me the same way now that we are wed. As for all those pleasures of the night that we’ve heard whispers about, they are not so much our pleasures but instead are for him. I am already constrained, and I haven’t been married but a month.”

“Let me free you, like the heroes in stories and songs, Julie. I am an Armstrong, and you are a Jackson. Such names carry weight, and so we should use them.”

“Oh, Liv,” Julie said sadly, for they both knew it was the males in the family that carried that weight and they were more like the flag bearers. “How I wish that were so. But there is no way to free me from a cage that lacks a lock, and to destroy my jailer would be to leave me in poor position in this world.”

And Olivia knew that, but didn’t like it.

* * *

Marriage was a tricky affair in Amestris. If you were of a middle or lower class, marrying for love was very common. But if you were an Armstrong or of similar standing, family politics had a larger hand in things. Girls weren’t in arranged marriages from birth. Starting about thirteen, they were allowed to go to dances and parties hosted by families of a similar stature. They were encouraged to be proper ladies, and their parents noticed which young men their daughters seemed to get along with. 

When a girl reached sixteen, her parents would make note of which lads she was on good terms with and consider the benefits of a union with all of those families. Potential husbands would be ranked, with family status having a stronger effect than affection between the potential couple, and the parents would then propose a marriage between the two.

Proposals were always made by the bride-to-be’s family, but the groom’s had ability to say no. In which case, the lady’s parents would move on to the next young man on the list. 

The result was that ladies had some control over who they were to wed, which to Olivia made Julie’s predicament that much worse. But because of that system she had been taught how to capture the attention of young men she was interested in and get them to do as she wished. A compliant dance partner who catered to a lady got points with her parents. 

Of course, that meant even the bitchiest of ladies would have males doing her bidding under a guise of a smile. And for those young men who were on the edge about wanting a lady’s parents to consider him, there were certain tactics that were employed. 

Puppy dogs eyes and pouty lips. 

Olivia was thrilled to discover that they worked as well on her father and the sword-training master as they did Jonathan Mastiff. 

And so, just a few months before her fifteenth birthday she started taking lessons along side her brother. Within two months, she had caught up to her brother’s skill level from two years of training. Within three, she was better.

It was at that point Alex decided to pursue alchemy instead. There was a bit of family history involving that skill, and he had started studying the theory before he took up the sword. Secretly, Olivia had suspected it was because he was embarrassed by how easily she kicked his ass, but he never gave any indication of that. Alex was always smiling and happily throwing sparkles around. And he was really, really good at alchemy. 

It was at that point Olivia decided that when she turned sixteen she would enlist in the military to prevent getting trapped into a marriage. And she added an ‘r’ to her name, officially changing it to Olivier because she thought it sounded more masculine and aggressive. 

In a man’s world, she would take any advantage she could get.

* * *

On the day of her birthday, she woke up before any other member of her family, had a brief breakfast in the servants’ quarters, and ordered a driver to take her to Central Headquarters. 

She decided against dressing in a good dress, as was common for young ladies when they went out, and instead dressed in her sparring gear. Minus the pads. The housekeeper almost had a fit, seeing her attempting to leave the house in such attire, but Olivier had brandished her sword and stopped with the tip an inch from her neck. No one in the house tried to stop her after that. 

When the clock chimed eight, the hour when Central was open to visitors, Olivier had already been waiting by the iron gates for thirty minutes. She strode up the stone steps, chest out, face done up, and demanded of the first person she saw where the recruitment office was. For all she knew, she had addressed a brigadier general. 

It didn’t matter, for he just stared at her for a moment until she stomped on his foot and he gave her the way. Without a thank-you, she turned on her heel and made her way down the hall.

They didn’t dare turn her down at the recruitment office. She was an Armstrong, she had, and knew how to use, a sword, and the military wasn’t going to turn down volunteers. They told her the next group of new recruits was meeting next week and shipping up north, but she could wait three months and join the next group who would train in West City. 

Olivier signed up for the trip up north. 

Leaving the warrant officer gaping after her, she turned and made her way out of Central HQ to where her driver was waiting with the car. She slid in, and made it back to the Armstrong estate for breakfast with the family. At which she made the announcement that she had joined the military and would be leaving next week. 

She was not terribly surprised to see that only Alex made a protest. Her father wished her luck with a jolly laugh, and Olivier had to wonder if he knew she was serious, and if so what her decision entailed. Her mother just smiled and asked what she was going to tell her suitors. To which Olivier replied, what suitors, because she had been doing her best to scare them away. Except for Jonathan Mastiff. He was fun to play with. Amue seemed confident that it was just a phase. Strongine, her youngest sister, couldn’t seem to wrap her head around the idea. “You mean you won’t be at the Macanister’s party? Why would you want to miss that?” 

Alex, thankfully, didn’t mention anything along the lines of how the military was too tough for her. Instead he brought up how it went against her womanly deposition, and he would worry for her virtue surrounded by young men of no breeding.

They fought. Their father had to buy a new dining room table. But Alex understood Olivier could hold her own and would probably do quite well in the military. Especially since she had this talent for looking good while fighting. Her checks blushed, she pursed her lips so their full poutiness was displayed, and not a single stray bit of blonde hair left its place. 

The only problem was that Mrs. Armstrong saw it as a new tactic to gain a suitor. Which it wasn’t, but Olivier wasn’t going to correct her, not now that she had her support.

* * *

Training in North City was difficult. Unlike others in her platoon, she had seen snow before. But it was for enjoyment and she had been dressed in much warmer clothes. Amestris uniforms, even winter ones, weren’t as nice. The layers kept them warm for a bit, but eventually the dampness of the snow would sneak in and begin to chill them.

Olivier had contemplated writing home and asking for her thin, greased cloth wrap to keep the wet out, but never ended up writing that letter. There was the added issue that she didn’t want her family to use her disagreement with the weather as a reason for her to quit. And while she wouldn’t turn down any advantage when it came to be seen as equal to a man, she didn’t want any that highlighted her family’s status. 

The first thing they had learned during basic training was that in the military, only rank mattered. The men and women in a platoon were your family and friends, the people whose lives you would save and the people who would save you life in return. They were all human beings.

So while Olivier was anxious to rule the country one day, because striving for a goal and making steps towards it were sure to keep marriage plans away, she was going to do it on average human terms. No special, smuggled in equipment. No using her father’s connections. Just simple human determination and training, so that she could prove there could be more to women than being wives. 

Thus, she learned how to brave the cold without complaint, to survive on less than servant’s rations, to fire a gun (though she preferred the sword), and to take orders from those who had earned the right to give them. 

She was good at it too, had quickly risen through the ranks. For a time period. There seemed to be some invisible restraint that wouldn’t allow her to move past the title of captain. So when her brother Alex joined years later as a State Alchemist and got a rank of major, something she had been aiming for with no result, she marched into her CO’s office, asked to speak freely, and when given permission proceeded to tell him off. 

He listened. Really, really listened. And then said, “There has never been a woman major.”

So Olivier listed off every qualification she had above the man that had just been promoted from her squad. And over her brother. 

And her CO agreed, if she had been a man, she would have been promoted instead. “But you’re not. We’ve agreed to give women the right to fight, but as I’m sure you’ve noticed, while men are willing to fight along side those of the opposite gender they are not willing to fight under them.”

He showed her to the door. 

Olivier went to the Fuhrer. 

King Bradley sat behind his desk, fingers laced together and stared at her while she made her point. She had years of experience, had several successful minor missions under her belt, had good reports from those both above and below her, and could beat her brother in a fight. 

At the last point, Bradley chucked and Olivier got the feeling he saw her more as an amusement than anything serious. She played politician. It was another Armstrong skill half-passed through the generations. 

“Sir Fuhrer, your reign is just beginning. Wouldn’t be wonderful if it could be associated with the promotion of civil liberties? More women today are entering the career field and doing jobs traditionally associated with men. Have you been to Rush Valley? A fourth of the workshops employ women. In contrast, the treatment of women in the military is deplorable. There has never been a women major, and with more women bound to enter the military in the future this organization will soon seem to be old-fashioned and treacherously behind the times.”

“You really want to be a major, don’t you Captain Armstrong. Why?” 

“I want to be free to do what I want to do, even if I have to callus my hands to do so.”

“And what about bloody them?”

“Sir?”

“Would you bloody your hands to get what you want?”

“I learned from basic sir that we all have the same core, but only the best move on up. ‘Survival of the fittest’, as I believe as the saying goes.“

The Fuhrer smiled at her. “Let’s have a match, what do you say?”

“Pardon, sir?”

“I’m heard you’re skilled with the art of swordplay. It happens to be my favorite method of combat as well. You said you could defeat your younger brother, let’s see how you do against me.”

Olivier blanched. She was rather proud of her skills with a blade, and hated to back down from a challenge. It wasn’t how the strong lived. However, this was the Fuhrer. At the head of the pack, it was sure to be a position he earned. She had no idea how good he actually was. He could be better. But even if he wasn’t, and she beat him, how would he react? It wouldn’t do to have the leader of the country beaten by a female captain. And if that didn’t happen, if the Fuhrer won, what would people say of her attacking him?

But she really wanted to be a major.

“Could we not make this public, sir?”

“That would simplify things, wouldn’t it? Very well, I’ll make sure that Warehouse 13 is clear tomorrow night, will that work?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. See you then.” Olivier saluted the Fuhrer, turned on her heel and marched out of the door. She had to get ready for tomorrow night.

* * *

When Olivier showed up to HQ the next morning, the rumor mill was going in the office. Apparently two young sergeant majors the night before had seen what they were calling a ghost in warehouse 13, an angry spirit from the execution ground all thirteen warehouses had been built on. 

Olivier didn’t give it much credit as far as rumors went. She gave a lot more to the Fuhrer. She didn’t think he would have done something so drastic to give them privacy. It almost made her…like him. Except for the fact that he was the main obstacle in her way. 

He even went all secret agent to tell her the time, sending her a bouquet of seven lilies through a distant relative’s flower shop. At least, she assumed it was from him. The note attached had simply said ‘To a beautiful lady’, and was underlined. The line extended more than necessary past the ‘y’ and was crossed with a small hash. A sword if she had ever seen one. 

Still, she was rather impressed by King Bradley. 

Even more so when she found the windows of the warehouse blacked out with plastic when she arrived. The Fuhrer was stretching in the center of the warehouse, uniform pants on with just the white undershirt on top. There was a strange harness on his lower mid-back, from which jutted two swords. 

Olivier kept her face passive, but internally her blood froze. If he fought with two, he would beat her into the ground in no time, and there would go any chance at a promotion. 

She began stretching too, keeping her full uniform on. In true conditions she would fight in it, and there was at much at stake here personally for her as it would be on the front lines of the war she could feel coming around the corner. 

“I see you got my message,” the Fuhrer said. 

“Yes, very clever, sir.”

“I thought so. I used to work in intelligence you know. Sometimes I miss it, and as such I might have gone a bit over the top arranging this fight for us. But I was having fun doing so.”

She didn’t answer. 

The Fuhrer moved into a starting position, pulling out a single sword as he did so. “I’m only planning on fighting with the one, but I’m used to the weight of the other on my back. You don’t mind, do you Captain?” 

“Not at all, sir.” Olivier answered, smoothing into a similar position. 

She charged first, not wanting to get into a waiting game. It was a teasing strike, a quick in and out to gage his reaction time. It was good. She stepped back, and he pushed forward, testing her as well. She thought she passed, judging by the up turned corner of his mouth as he stepped away. 

They were of equal skill, it would be a good match. 

She moved first again and Bradley parried, pushing her sword away from his body and lunging in on his off foot. His sword was in no position to reach her, so he slid it off her blade and spun out to put space between them. Olivier spun too, keeping them close and their steel crashed as they stood almost back to back. 

They both jumped away and Bradley crouched low to rush her, sword held out to his side. She stepped into the attack, pushing the sword away and forcing him off balance with her shoulder. 

He didn’t so much stumble as gracefully take a step back and smile at her. “Excellent, Armstrong. You’re worthy of your reputation.”

Bradley rushed again, the same move, but was it just her or did he seem faster now? She couldn’t complete the same counter; when she stepped toward him his sword nicked her arm and then pulled away. 

Olivier whirled to look at him. He was feet away, feet together and sword pointing towards the ground as if he had just flicked blood off of it. 

She held her sword steady and narrowed her eyes at him. “You were holding back, weren’t you, Fuhrer sir?”

“Yes. Did you want to stop?”

Oh, she knew now he was better than her. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t find out a way to win. 

“No.” Neither her voice nor sword trembled as she settled into another start position. One that was obviously defensive. 

The Fuhrer raise an eyebrow with an ‘hmm?’ but otherwise didn’t comment. 

He charged. Olivier managed to block the first one well, fumbled the second one a bit, and didn’t even manage to bring up her sword to prevent a hit the third time Bradley slashed. She ducked instead, the steel bit into the side of her shoulder instead of her waist. But the Fuhrer had great control over his sword, just nicking her and then pulling back his blade. He had swung it with such force; Olivier had thought for sure that if she got hit in the side it would be a serious wound. 

Olivier went into a barrel roll from her crouch, but when she ended it, landing on one knee raised while the other rested on the ground, she couldn’t see Bradley. And then she felt the cold press of steel to her neck. He had snuck up behind her without making a noise, and quick enough where she hadn’t seen the gleam of metal as it snaked toward her neck. 

“You lose,” he whispered in her ear and the only thing Olivier could think was damn.

The Fuhrer was impressive, and fun to spar with. A little treacherous thought crept into her mind, that she maybe wouldn’t mind marriage to someone like him. But he was already married. And men changed once the chase was over. 

He pulled his sword away and stepped back, allowing Olivier to get up. When she turned to face him, Bradley was smiling with his eyes closed. He reminded her of a smug teenager.

They stood staring at each other, until the Fuhrer pulled out a pocket watch. It was sliver, but not of the military style used to depict State Alchemists. The hinge was on the bottom, and instead of being circular the case was octagonal. “Well, I need to be getting home for dinner.” 

“Sir,” Olivier started and then paused. A rare feat for her, but the Fuhrer did have a lot of power. “Did I pass?”

“You did indeed, Captain Armstrong. You can expect a promotion tomorrow. You might want to have a speech prepared.”

She blinked at him.

Bradley slipped on his jacket, cupped his hands behind his back, and made his way to the door. He peaked to make sure the cost was clear before leaving. “See you in the morning…Major.” He said, and only after he slipped out did Olivier move.

She smiled a grin full of smugness and accomplishment, and then sat down on the floor to start cleaning off her sword. It wouldn’t due to have it not shine tomorrow; regardless of what game the Fuhrer was playing.

* * *

Olivier had a smile-smirk on her face the next morning. It rather freaked out those in her office group. Of course, that may have had something to do with the fact that it appeared after the tale of Warehouse 13’s increased hauntedness – one could now hear the death swish of a sword and a body fall. Something about that smile seemed to say that she was more than willing, and capable, of showing her comrades just how executions used to be conducted sword style. 

Then again, about the same time a runner came into the office and delivered a paper about a presentation that afternoon on the parade ground. There had been a general memo about it addressed to the office, and a second, sealed one addressed to Olivier. 

Her co-workers were pretty sure it was a secret assassin assignment, judging by the way her hand went to her sword hilt and her creepy smile grew as she read it. 

In truth, it was just a letter from the Fuhrer, signed only with the same sword underline, that instructed her to make her way to a small office instead of the parade ground slightly before the presentation was due to start. 

When she arrived there shortly after lunch, it was to step into a room of high-ranking brass. They all eyed her critically, scanning her from head to toe and Olivier found it unnerving. She hid it by pushing her lips out, crossing her arms, and staring them down. 

“I’m pretty sure you all have wives.” She said icily. 

Not a single one looked perturbed at the comment, nor embarrassed for having their eyes linger longer in some places more than others, but they all turned away. 

“Ah, here she is at last!” Bradley came out of the back of the crowd. “I was just telling my advisory board here about you. They are quite intrigued.”

He didn’t offer any idea as to what he had said that intrigued them, and as if the word was a cue the brass began to filter out of the room. They saluted the Fuhrer as they left, just as Olivier saluted them, and eventually it was just her and Bradley in the room together. 

“Right, just follow me and when I’m talking stand to the side of the podium. I do hope you have some inspiring words to say.”

She never was an inspirational person, just determined to get what she wanted. Olivier had a sinking feeling this ‘presentation’ was going to be a disaster. 

“Right, off we go.” Bradley exited the room, and she followed behind him all the way to the podium on the stage that had been eructed in the parade ground. She did not look at the seated generals as she went by and stood quietly at attention while the Fuhrer waited to have everyone’s eyes. 

Olivier was not impressed by his speech, mainly because it was an elongated, more elaborate version of what she had told him in his office. It was time for Amestris to move forward as a nation, and the military was taking the first step, blah blah blah. 

The only part that mattered was when the Fuhrer said. “And thus, after careful consideration, we have decided to make Olivier Armstrong the first female major ever. I expect a great military career for her, and the many women who follow in her footsteps in the future.”

He then turned to switch out her insignia; the blue patch with three stars and three gold stripes was exchanged for a blue patch with four gold stripes and one star in the center. 

She couldn’t help it, the corner of her mouth pulled upwards in a smile. 

And then the Fuhrer stepped away from the microphone and indicated that she should say something. Despite his prompting, she hadn’t actually come up with something. Olivier had just planned on saying fluff, but Bradley had already said most of it. So instead, she leaned real close to the mike and moved a glare from one male in the crowd to another. They all gulped nervously.

“Don’t get in my way.” Olivier said. 

She swore the Fuhrer was laughing, but when she turned to give the podium back to him he was just smiling a pleased smile.

* * *

She moved up the ranks fast. From Major to Lieutenant Colonel to Colonel in three years. 

No one moved up that fast, not even in a war period where people died and positions had to be filled. And yet, there weren’t too many people upset with her.

It was because she was ‘the media case’ and others in the military saw her as not really of that rank but just playing pretend. She was meeting with one reporter or another constantly, being interviewed about her career in the military, her opinion on women’s rights, or set up to meet one of the various females who had joined the military because of all the coverage of Olivier. Those meetings she didn’t mind so much. It was nice to know that she was helping other young girls escaping the trappings of society.

Not that middle class or poor class girls- like many new enlistees were- were running from the same thing she was. Or that the military wasn’t full of trappings itself.

She may have been a colonel, but the rank seemed to hold little meaning to anyone above a major. Everyone believed she was only gaining rank to be the ‘female officer’ for the media to follow, not because she could do the job. Which she could, surprisingly well, as those under her command said. 

But the problem with being promoted every year was that those under her command changed every year, as did her tasks. It took her a while to figure out what each new position required of her, longer how to do it well, and even longer to manage the men and few women under her. She knew how to inspire loyalty, how to read men and act around them so they would follow her orders – willingly, and now it was a lot more complicated than a pout and big eyes. It took time. And shortly after everything in her office was functioning smoothly, things would change.

Being the media case meant she was, if not an important figure in the news, than at least a regular one. That meant parties. Lots and lots of social parties. More so than she had attended on a regular basis when she was still a young lady living with her parents. There was something about being in the military that seemed to put her on more equal ground with the average citizen, and her being the media case made her easy to get a hold of.

There was a lot of invitations, and a lot of them she returned with a response of ‘not attending’. She was still an Armstrong, she wasn’t going to go to just anyone’s event.

The Fuhrer didn’t like that. It didn’t fill well with the military’s public relations campaign. He took her, instead of his wife, to a social dinner once hosted by a family two below Oliver’s level. Not a dance, just a dinner. And through his nudges and pokes of a fork into her thigh under the table, she got the idea that she had to act a certain way. She still had to be feminine, but a forward one. It was okay to wear the slacks of the uniform for practicality, but she shouldn’t plan on wearing them for her entire life. Eventually, she should settle down and get married. 

Olivier didn’t act the part he wanted her to. When she was asked about how long she was planning to be in the military, her answer was until she died. When asked about marriage, she said it was not something she was thinking about and something she hoped to avoid. When asked about how high she was aiming for, she turned to Bradley and gave a lioness smile, all secret and predatory, that only he could see, and said she was hoping to go as far as possible. 

She wasn’t fitting gender norms, even the newer, working women ones that were developing. She left the dinner with more blood stained holes in her pants than she cared to count from the Fuhrer’s fork. 

They didn’t like each other after that.

But she got the hint that she had to be more feminine, and tried to be so to semi patch their falling out. It wasn’t good to have the leader of your country hate you. She wore a dress to her next social dinner, and the dance after that.

It was a bad choice. The paper published pictures of both dresses and suddenly saw her as someone to follow for fashion. Derivatives of what she wore became popular in dress shops, and the Armstrong family tailor (who didn’t just work for them, but the family was her main clientele) became so flooded with requests that the extra pair of pants she ordered were done almost three weeks later than she expected. Sure, Olivier could have bought the extra from the military stock room, they only provided three uniforms free of cost, but they didn’t fit as nice. 

What was worse, was the cat calls that had started following her in HQ. It had been no secret that she was busty and had a pretty face. But in those dresses, it had been revealed just exactly how busty she was. And how shaped her legs and butt were. She had liked the uniform because it hide her shape, but now it was plastered all over the paper and she had once came across a corporal who kept a copy in his pocket. 

The amount of invitations she got to join someone for dinner, or for just doing the ‘horizontal mambo’ skyrocketed. 

The men were below her social status for the most part anyway. But greater than that, was the fact that she didn’t like any of them. 

Of course, there was the not so secret rumor that she was selected to be the media case because of either being an Armstrong or spreading her legs for the generals. Both disgusted her. She wanted to succeed on her own merit, not because of her social status (because really, being female wasn’t much of an advantage and she hadn’t talked to her family in years). But she knew her family name was one of the main, if not most prominent, reasons why she was chosen as the media case. It wasn’t something she could control, but it was something she didn’t push and highlight. Except when turning down invitations. 

As for her relations with the generals, it was very minimal. She didn’t want to add fuel to the rumors. The best thing to do would be to not go entirely, but that wasn’t wise for many reasons. And she couldn’t not go to a party hosted by the Komet’s, now that Julie was married into the family. 

Julie was the first person she sought out and the first person she greeted. Over the almost thirteen years she had been in the military, they had still kept in touch via letters and occasional visits. She hadn’t had the free time, or desire really, to come to parties until after her promotion to major so they had met elsewhere. But now she made a point of coming to every party Julie hosted she could. 

Her family hadn’t even appeared during the first few parties she attended, but at later ones she would glimpse a bit of them around the room though they would never approach each other. Olivier assumed no one was happy with her, her unmarried, career woman status at odd with how the ladies of the Armstrong family were supposed to act. It couldn’t have been easy for her sisters to find a man with Olivier’s name hovering over them. And now that she thought about it, she had never received a wedding invitation for Amue or Strongine. Surely, they were married. She was almost 29, they were certainly of age to have been married and have one or two children. Even her mother had had another child, Katherine. She should be about eight now.

There was a general walking in her direction, and judging by the way their eyes made contact he was looking for her. He smiled. She didn’t. Olivier had always tried to avoid talking to them, in the halls of Central HQ and especially at social gatherings to discourage rumors. Now was the time to practice survival tactics and disappear. 

Though it might be a bit late for that, as she felt a large presence suddenly at her back. Even the general on his way over paled a little, and in the reflection of the wine glass of a fellow guest near her Olivier saw a flash of pink, the same color of the notorious Armstrong sparkle. 

“Sister!” boomed a voice and Olivier found herself wrapped in a crushing hug from behind. It was only the lack of a military uniform that gave her the clue it was on of her sisters and not Alex, but they were so alike in voice and muscle mass she couldn’t tell who it was that had claimed her in a death grip. She felt humiliated, lifted up in the air with her feet almost a foot off the floor. But she didn’t show it, much. Her eyes just lit with an inner flame and her lips thinned. 

Amue, or was it Strongine?, turned and walked out onto a balcony, carrying Olivier, and she realized her sister was helping her get away from the general. She didn’t comment on it though, and neither did her sister. Instead, as soon as her feet touched the ground she brushed off her uniform and then looked at her sister’s hair. That was the main way to tell the two apart. Amue had sunshine hair while Strongine’s was more the color of buttercups. Very similar to most eyes, but to an Armstrong it was easy to pick out. 

Sunshine hair, Amue then. 

“I haven’t heard from you in years, Olivia,” Amue said, using her given name. She didn’t correct her; family had certain allowances of course. 

“Well, you never seemed supportive of my choice. I hardly see a reason for you to be now.”

Amue pursed her lips. She wasn’t a beautiful woman by any means. Olivier had gotten those genes, and maybe Katherine did too. Amue, like Strongine and Alex, took after their grandfather. Naturally well defined, all three of them had bulging arms, legs, and abs a rock was jealous of. Alex was the only one who worked out though, giving him the ability to rip his shirt to shreds just by flexing, but the girls couldn’t do it. 

Olivier knew they had a hard time of it; when they were little none of the lads at gatherings would approach them and so they had tried to counteract their masculine physique with ultra feminine clothes, make-up, and up-dos. There had been a lot of pink, ruffled dresses. 

It didn’t look like Amue had completely gotten out of the habit; her dress was sleeveless and flowed large around her. It did wonders to hide her pecs and the draping fabric from the shoulders helped hide her arms. But her hair was still done up in a complicated up-do and she wore too much make-up. 

“Strongine and I, as you know, never got the attention we wanted. No one Mother and Father approached with a marriage proposal said yes.”

“But you’re of the Armstrong family!”

“Yes, but they all said they had been hoping for you. Families actually waited, thinking that Father would pull you from the military. And now that you’re doing well…”

“I know, I keep getting offers.” Olivier growled.

“Even at your age?”

“We marry young, but amongst the commoners I’m considered to be at the end of marriagable age.”

“How strange. But I was going to say you’ve generated interest in Katherine. She looks more like you.”

“I’m…sorry, that you and Strongine are spinsters.”

Amue sighed and went to lean over the balcony’s stonewall. “It’s not your fault Liv, I had a feeling that even if the young men hadn’t held out for you, I still wouldn’t have gotten who I wanted. The Armstrong name and money only goes so far, especially as there were a lot of young ladies born around the same time. And Mother and Father do want us to be happy, they weren’t going to force us to be with someone we didn’t like.”

Olivier went to stand next to her sister, but didn’t say anything. Marriages were doomed to be unhappy eventually, though most turned so from the beginning. Her parents may want happiness for all their children, but that was such a hard thing to give. And the way her life was going, Olivier wondered if she would ever get it. 

“You really should come to call,” Amue continued. “We all miss you, and don’t understand why we haven’t seen you in so long.”

“When I left, I got the impression you didn’t believe me. And when I stayed, I felt for sure Father was going to force me home. I thought he was just waiting for one hint from me that I didn’t like being in the military he would pull me out. I didn’t want to risk that. And I never received anything that made me think the family was understanding of my choice. I knew I had to have made things difficult for you and Strongine, and thought you were all terribly mad at me.”

“Liv, that’s not true!” Amue slung an arm out and pulled Olivier to her side tightly. On of her ribs protested, but Olivier found herself not minding. 

“It’s true we thought you would change your mind, but after a year we decided you must be happy. Father wouldn’t take you away from that, though he was sad at the lost potential for grandkids. And you should have seen how he sparkled when your promotion to major was announced! That’s how they sent you Katherine’s birth announcement, through the public relations office. We had no idea how to contact you otherwise, and since you failed to send us something, even though we knew you knew our address, we all thought you were mad at us.”

“I’m sorry. Again.”

“Come over for dinner tomorrow?”

“I have prior engagements, but I can the day after.”

“Perfect, I’ll tell everyone at home.”

* * *

It was because of her purposeful distance of the generals that she failed to notice something important. The staff was changing more than it should have. 

She had never reported to the same CO for more than a year since her promotion to major, but she liked her current one. Major General Grumman was a spry old man who liked to smile at her and was a great strategist. He saw that she had skills, was maybe a little over her head with how fast her promotions had been going, but was still doing well and meeting challenges. He taught her, respected her, and Olivier found herself liking the man as well.

He was good at his job, and so when the tensions in the East grew and talk of war was heavy on the air Olivier wasn’t surprised that Grumman was sent out to command Eastern HQ along with an equally ranked general named Raven. He however didn’t want to go. 

“There is something wrong with this coming war,” he told her. “I don’t like the feel of it. And I can’t help but think that others are hoping I die in the conflict.”

“And why do you say that?”

“Because over the past five years, there has been more staff changes and shuffles amongst the generals than in the past fifteen. And for us not being in an active war, the number of deaths among the lower generals is troublesome. Take care dear, and I hope you don’t get promoted again anytime soon.” 

She saw him off on the train, his words echoing in her head. As soon as she was back in HQ, she went to the records department to do her own research. 

The Fuhrer had an advisory committee, composed of mainly true generals and lieutenant generals, with a few major generals. Of that group, one had died – old age, and two had been added in the last five years. As for the lower generals, major generals and brigadier generals, the staff change had been much greater. 

On average, the higher the rank, the more you were in it before getting a promotion. It wasn’t a surprise to move quickly though the lower ranks, but once you were a major, things slowed down. Most state alchemists never got promoted, and even then it was only after years on the field. As for non-alchemists, who had worked their way up the ranks to major and had a better understanding of how the military worked, most spent three to four years at that rank. And for each promotion after that, they would stay about the same amount, with maybe an additional year. Once you got to Olivier’s position, colonel, it was hard to move up unless a position opened up above you. Usually by someone else being promoted, dying, or retiring. 

As since she just found out seven lower generals had died in the past five years, either by accidents or illnesses and one street murder, she couldn’t help but wonder who was going to die and whose place she was going to take. 

She tried not to think about it. It was unnerving, thinking about how her career might have been built on the bodies of those seven men. She wasn’t above doing what she needed to get to the top, survival of the fittest, she had killed before during a small skirmish in the south at the end of that war and all that, but it almost seemed as if someone was cheating on her behalf and it made her feel tainted. 

Olivier wanted to do things on her own and had trained the men under her to do the same. Someone up the ranks going against that set her on edge. 

No one died. Grumman asked for assistance in the East, he got soldiers and a newly promoted colonel. There shouldn’t have been a room in the command structure for Olivier to be promoted, again, this time to brigadier general. She wondered if someone was going to die or get shuffled off again. She wondered if she was a target.

* * *

She received a bouquet of lilies through her relative again, the card saying one o’clock written out with letters and underlined in same way it had been when the Fuhrer set up their sword duel. As it was currently near the end of the workday, Olivier figured he meant late that night. 

She considered not showing up, but this was the Fuhrer. You didn’t say no to the ruler of your government. 

But apparently he could stand her up, no problem. 

It wasn’t exactly true. Bradley didn’t come to warehouse 13 that night, but most of the high-ranking generals did. They came out of uniform, and while she didn’t see it she heard the jingle of chains. 

She regretted not getting to know any of the generals before, for now they were all just leering faces with beady eyes and too bright teeth. She didn’t like that. It was better to know your attackers, to enhance your success. 

“Armstrong,” one general said, from behind the first row so she couldn’t see him. She bristled at the lack of rank. “We were rather hesitant at first to King Bradley’s use of you, but we were promised that we could use you as we like one night. Think of it as…a promotion gift.”

There was shuffling, and the speaking general stepped forward. He was short and tan, with a handle bar brown mustache. 

“You can’t deny you’re a beautiful woman.”

“Pigs,” Olivier spat, drawing her sword. But they had expected that, shuffled again, and who was revealed was not another general but a young private who hadn’t even spent a year in the blue uniform. Olivier would know as she had just had a round table interview with her, a more senior solider, and a woman planning on taking the State Alchemist test earlier that week. 

Janet looked bruised, and the jingle of chains Olivier had heard before was louder now because they came from the material used to bind the private’s hands behind her back. 

“Let her go.”

“No,” the general replied, taking a step forward. 

Olivier had been sweeping her sword back and forth in front of the group of older men, but now pointed it straight at the man in front of her. 

“You see, Armstrong.” The general waved his hand and a lieutenant general stepped forward. He pushed his foot into the back of Janet’s knees, forcing her to the ground. He pulled her short brown bob back, and placed a knife on her throat. “You’re going to give us what we want, or the private here dies. And if you tell anyone about tonight, we’ll kill her and her sick, younger brother.”

Olivier’s looked at her fellow female solider; normally she would walk away, let the weak be devoured, but it was a different case knowing Janet was in the danger she was because of Olivier. And there was a difference between weakness and desperation. Weakness could be over come by toughing up, training, and learning how to move on. Desperation was another thing entirely, it could not simply be overcome by the person feeling it, and needed to be taken care of before leading to regrettable actions. 

There was a little of both in Janet’s eyes that night. Olivier let the brief thought that she was being soft enter her mind, and then threw her sword. It embedded itself in one of the wood rafters above them, removing the chance of it being used against her. And as the crowd of old men threw themselves on her, ripping off her clothes and bruising her thighs, she stared at the gleam of her sword and listened to Janet’s sobs. 

It wasn’t as bad as she thought, by the end of it. Maybe it was because after three men, she was tired. She refused to not at least struggle a bit- she didn’t want the generals to think she was happy with this night game- and it took six men to make sure she didn’t bite, punch, or kick anyone. That was a lot of weight to go against. Or maybe it was because after three men, who pretty much just unbuttoned, knelt, and plunged, pain became normal and the blood beneath her warmed the cold cement floor under her back and butt. So by the end of it, she just stared up at the light reflecting off her sword and thought. 

This was what she got for entering a man’s world. This was what she got for not following the Fuhrer’s wishes to a ‘T’. This was adding to the burden of wives around the city. This was what she got for running away from home. It was her fault, all of it, and the only way to prevent it was to get stronger. She was already known as the frosty one of the family, but maybe she should be stone instead. Stone did not feel pain; it was tough to knock down and great material for a new building, a new person. 

Stone did not cry. 

She tried not too. But when she was flipped, the looks she gave her attackers too much, and her vision was of the gray floor when her eyes weren’t squeezed shut, the temptation was too much. No one would notice, they weren’t paying attention to her face now that she had stopped trying to bite them. And just the thought of maybe, maybe she could get away with it was all the edging she needed. But she didn’t cry long, the wet spot on the cement was dry by the time they left. 

Janet, Janet cried. They made her watch, and she spent the whole time crying for the blonde woman who became more and more lifeless as the night went on. And when they all finished, some taking two or three turns, they unchained her hands and walked out of the warehouse just before dawn. 

Olivier faintly heard her crawl forward and then felt her small hand on her shoulder. “Brigadier General Armstrong? Brigadier General?” There might have been shaking involved, Olivier never remembered much through the haze of the latter part of her attack, or the hours afterward in which she stared at the wall until she fell asleep. But when she woke up, almost a full day later about time for dinner, Janet was still there. She was sitting with her knees drawn up to her chest a few feet from Olivier’s head, watching over her. At some point, she had found an old, scratchy blanket and had placed it over Olivier’s body, which she had washed and clothed.

They stared at each other for a minute. Janet with eyes wide and tearful, Olivier with blank ones that only held a deep hint of a spark. And then Olivier pushed herself up, arranged her uniform, picked up her sword (Janet had gotten it while she slept), and left to go back to her apartment. She left behind a bloodstain that never disappeared and a girl so desperate and depressed that she committed suicide two days later. 

She went to the service. Janet’s parents said what an honor it was to see her, the great Brigadier General Armstrong there at their daughter’s funeral.

Great. Yeah right. She was still limping. 

Olivier felt responsible, but she didn’t tell Janet’s parents that.

* * *

She used her status as the media case to her advantage. The public loved her, she couldn’t be discharged without a good reason, and to explain the high brass’s anger and decision to get rid of her would require uncovering a lot of things that they wanted to stay hidden. Olivier wanted them to stay out of sight too, but sharing that desire with her victims made things easier. 

When she could, she researched every general and lieutenant general who had been in the warehouse that night. She found out who their wives were, those of them who still had wives, and sent them cards. Using her best handwriting and calligraphy pen, she wrote Your husband cheated on you with me, and thinking for many women for whom this was not the first time it happened, added a second line: Without my permission.

She then sealed the envelopes with green wax, just a drop, no pressed insignia, addressed it to the wives, and dropped each one off by hand. She didn’t know how much of a difference it would make to the marriages, to the cages those women were already in, but it would send a message to their husbands. I will not stay completely silent. 

General Stout, the one who had done the talking at the warehouse, didn’t have a wife. She and her second child had died in childbirth, leaving behind a single daughter that Olivier had never seen. She didn’t know if the child knew what type of father she had, but she for sure heard his scream one night while he was taking a bath. 

Olivier had slipped into the washroom and had hidden there while the family had dinner. And when Stout undressed to enter the tub, she had stood up, drew her sword, and turned him into a rather old eunuch. She considered taking it a step further and riding him of his manhood entirely, but the pounding on the door had her slipping out the window before anyone else could come in and see her.

She wasn’t surprised when she was relocated to Fort Briggs. War with Ishval started, and so the military made up a press release about wanting to make sure Drachma wouldn’t attack and believing Brigadier General Armstrong, with her experience of training in the North, was the best person to send. 

There was some attacks back about not letting women fight on the front lines or lead during a time of war, for which the military made sure Olivier wasn’t able to be contacted to comment on. Instead, the Fuhrer highlighted the sniper program and how one of the best new recruits was a woman named Riza Hawkeye. He also noted the all female medical corps being put together to help the soldiers on the front line.

* * *

Briggs was cold. Contrary to what Bradley told the paper, her experience up north, which was only during training, was short and never this close to the border. It was cold, but she quickly slipped back into winter survival mode. And other survival modes too. Cold wasn’t the only problem at the Fort. Supplies were consistently late, the building was old and in need of repairs, and within her first three months there was a crazy lady running around out in the snow. Olivier was rather disappointed she didn't get to meet her. 

Olivier didn’t mind the reassignment that much. The strategist in her saw the long term benefits. It was the common reassignment location for those who had opinions that went against what the military wanted. Which meant lots of others who wanted to get back at the government that she would be able to train for years. 

The thing about loyalty was that it was given to those who looked after you. And Olivier did that. She protected her men, suffered the same hardships, and forced them all to work. She had always had a fondness for basic training and the feeling of being on the same footing as her fellow soldiers. It was something she incorporated at Briggs, making sure to not just do her desk job but help with the upkeep of Briggs as well.

She had an army that listened to her, were loyal, and fierce. She got promoted to major general after four years, but she never figured out it if it was because of her skills or it was another media ploy. If it was the latter, there was a lot less hullabaloo about it that her previous promotions. 

Olivier didn’t mind. She had found her home amongst the ice, had made it a part of her. Had to. For her tentative connection with her family and Julie had to be cut. She was far from favor in the Fuhrer’s eyes, and she constantly felt edgy. No one who didn’t need to be involved should be. She hoped they all understood.

King Bradley and his generals better look out, because Olivier Armstrong was going to force that administration out of office and take its place.


End file.
